


states of grace

by ricciardos



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: (borderline anyway), Character Study, Experimental Style, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, beware: this makes close to no sense but at the end of the day, consider this a demigod au of sorts?, gratuitous mentions to greek mythology, references to zeus and gaia, this is self indulgent on way too many scales, we are here for the vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:00:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26612617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricciardos/pseuds/ricciardos
Summary: They arrive at the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Legend has it that it was once home to Gaiaherself-(Charles would know, he started the rumour among the others.)(To be fair -- she is his mother. And thankfully, nothing disappoints.)
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	states of grace

It’s the hour that the stars meet the sky when Pierre asks Charles, fingers brushing his but not quite touching. 

_Am I loved?_

The windowsill where they sit welcomes just the right amount of wind for Pierre’s words to linger in the night sky, before getting carried away. 

Charles can feel his fingertips itching to grasp Pierre’s calloused ones, to muster all the strength and courage he has coursing through his veins to divert it to the one person who deserves it most. Quite frankly (and less suavely), he wants to make a dramatic declaration in the rain about how, quite possibly, there is no one who deserves to be loved _more_ than Pierre himself. 

(Somehow, he feels Pierre wouldn’t appreciate that. The sentiment, yes, but perhaps not the action.) 

Charles closes his eyes. 

-

They arrive at the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Legend has it that it was once home to Gaia _herself_ \- 

(Charles would know, he started the rumour among the others.) 

(To be fair -- she is his mother. And thankfully, nothing disappoints.) 

Pierre doesn’t say a word, but it’s clear from the moment he holds on to Charles’s hand a little tighter that this is far beyond what he’s expected. The scent of wildflowers is giddying, the song of rivers intensifying, the bursts of colour almost ethereal. 

Then, they see her. 

Mother Nature, herself. 

She has yet to spot them, but she sits, hands outstretched and facing the sky in a trance. Along the etches where her palm lines run, forests and flowers spring. They spread and run along her veins, bursting across her skin in bright colours of yellow, red, pink, white and violet. The water rushes at the hems of her skirt, forming a pool of clear blue to flood the arena. The tides ebb and flow but they always seemingly come back to them, the rogue petals collecting at their feet before scattering away again. 

She gives a small smile, and opens her eyes to reveal the mix of green and blue that penetrate his soul. 

_You are growth,_ she whispers. 

You are growth. 

-

When they next open their eyes, Pierre finds himself in an open field. Charles is next to him, but he keeps a distance, beckoning him instead to look up at the brilliant blue of the sky. 

Zeus. 

Pierre brings his fingertips up, as if he could ever touch the canopy that encapsulates the Earth in all it’s kindness and benevolence. 

In that instance, Charles swears that the sky smiles back down at Pierre. 

The sun shines fiercely on the fibres of their skin. The warmth is unconditional, unwavering, and powerful. The rays shine down like _they too_ are creatures capable of loving and feeling warmth, who _deserve_ to be feeling warmth. 

It’s a gentle radiance that Pierre basks in, the sunlight hitting his hair in an everlasting golden hour. 

(Son of the Skies, Prince of the Thunder.) 

Pierre is strong in his own ways. He stares the Sun and the sky down like they are on equal footing, where other mortals dare not even tread on the same soil that the sun shines on. 

_You are strong,_ Zeus whispers. 

You are strong.

(How could he not be loved?) 

-

It’s dawn when they return to the windowsill, the hour where the sun hits the edge of the clouds and send orange and yellow bursting throughout the sky. It’s a brilliant collage of colour, as if Monet or Picasso had taken their paints and haphazardly spread them across the sky. 

Charles takes his hand in Pierre, fingers clutching, heart beating. 

_You are loved,_ he whispers fiercely. 

You are loved.

**Author's Note:**

> did i write this instead of revising for history? i might be a fool but i ain't a coward 
> 
> (ps: let this serve as a reminder that you are always, always loved)
> 
> kudos and comments always appreciated! find me on tumblr @albon-and-gang


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